The Trouble with Hearts
by strausmouse
Summary: John gets in over his head with Irene Adler, and it's up to Sherlock to rescue him.  pre-slash


(John)

'What do you have that Sherlock Holmes could possibly want?' the woman asked, turning to John with a glare. He stared back, mouth still slightly agape from when his would-be romantic interest had ordered him to be seized and tied to a chair. Not two hours ago those cool, calculating dark eyes, now narrowed in disgust, had been wide and innocent, gazing into his in open admiration.

He'd met her at a party. Bill Murray, an old friend from his days in the army, had talked him into it, said he needed to get out more, and, no, chasing murderers through dark London alleys did not count as getting out. He hadn't liked it much, found himself wondering if Sherlock had got hold of a new case instead of listening to Mr. So-and-So's story about his encounter with a souvenir vendor's runaway cart. He had just made his excuses and started to make his way towards the door when he saw _her_ watching him from across the room. She was wrapped in a shimmering silk dress and her chocolate brown curls swung just over her shoulders as she approached him.

'These parties bore me too," she drawled in an American accent. "I bet it's even worse for you, after all the excitement you had in Afghanistan.' John started for a moment, then relaxed. She probably knew Bill and been subjected to his long-winded tales about their 'days in the sandbox.'

'You seem to know all about me,' he said with a grin, 'and I don't even know your name.' The woman smiled, revealing a set of perfect pearl-white teeth and held out a dainty hand.

'Irene Adler.'

Things moved quickly from there, surprisingly so, and before John knew it she was inviting him back to her place. He couldn't believe his luck, until two hulking men grabbed him the minute he walked in the door, after which he had trouble believing anything _except_ his luck. Because it was just his luck for the girl he was trying to get off with to have a criminal affiliation, or at least some ulterior motive, an ulterior motive which no doubt concerned -

"Sherlock Holmes." Irene Adler muttered his name as she stopped to stand in front of the fireplace, the flames hissing and spitting at her feet. This was starting to sound a lot like the 'little chat' Mycroft had kidnapped him for after he'd first moved in with Sherlock. Maybe Irene Adler was a cousin or something.

'What about him?' John replied stiffly.

'Everything!' she cried, running her hands through her hair distractedly. John couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. Scratch the familial connection. So this was what happened when geniuses got crushes on each other.

Irene pulled out her phone and started texting, her fingernails clacking harshly against the keys.

'You still haven't answered my question,' she said without looking up. 'What do you have that attracts Sherlock Holmes?'

'Attracts?' John couldn't keep the confusion from his voice. She shut her phone with an angry snap.

'Idiot! I mean what makes him single you out from all the imbeciles just like you? How could he possibly bear to associate himself with someone so beneath him?'

John didn't answer, first because he already got plenty of bellyaching about 'imbeciles' from Sherlock, and second because he really didn't know the answer. What made him different from any other 'idiot?' They were flatmates, but it wasn't just that; flatmates don't go around solving crimes together. His thoughts were interrupted by his captor's cold voice.

'I shouldn't have expected you to know. Dear god, the man will never cease to amaze me! What patience he must have! And for a reason even I can't deduce,' she sighed, and her eyes snapped back to John. A hint of a smile worked its way onto her face.

"You probably won't believe me, when I say I like you John. You disgust me, but I like you all the same. Do you know why?" Her face smoothed back into the warm innocent look that had deceived him so easily before. She leaned down, and John shivered as her mouth brushed against his ear. "Because you're going to bring him to me," she whispered. She pulled away with a harsh laugh, then turned to go.

'I texted him an invitation to our little party,' she called over her shoulder. 'I doubt he'll keep us waiting for long.' A body guard stepped forward to close the door behind her, then retreated back out of John's range of vision. Time passed. It was impossible to say how much, besides the feeling that it was achingly long. John found himself staring into the fire, the only thing that moved in the stone-still room. Then suddenly he started. Was it just him or was smoke starting to push into the room instead of up the chimney? No, that was definitely smoke working its way into his mouth and lungs. Great, that was just great. First he's seduced and kidnapped, then his seducer tells him repeatedly that he's an idiot and that it's not him but his flatmate she wants, and now he's increasing his chances of lung cancer with every breath. This one was going on the clinic's brochure: _Ways to Keep your Lungs Healthy: don't get yourself tied to chairs in smoke-filled rooms. _With relief he heard the guard behind him calling for 'assistance' on his phone, and soon the door opened and another guard rushed in to dump a pot of water on the flames. Two more walked in after him. Apparently they thought smoke was Sherlock's doing. _Great plan, Sherlock,_ he thought bitterly, _suffocate your flatmate. That'll make things a whole lot better._

The guards moved to position themselves in each, all of them coughing in the remaining smoke. One was especially bad, hacking into his palm while he pressed his eyes into the crook of his arm to keep out the stinging smoke. As he tried to blindly make his way forward, he tripped over the edge of the carpet and stumbled against the wall, flicking off the light switch.

In the eight seconds of darkness that followed, a knife slipped under the ropes binding his wrists and cut them free, and a gun dropped into his lap. Then the light turned back on and John saw Sherlock's manic grin just inches from his own face before the man stood, slowly raising his hands into the air as he backed away. The three real guards were all behind John, but he could tell that they'd drawn their weapons. He scowled at Sherlock, thinking _Who's the idiot now?_

'I'd rather you didn't point those things at me,' Sherlock sniffed. 'I understand Miss. Adler wants to see me, but I really don't think the threat of violence is necessary. Here, I'll lay down my weapon as well.' He pulled a gun out of his pocket and placed it on the floor. The guards hesitated, but they must have complied eventually because Sherlock smiled insincerely and said, 'Shall we proceed then?'

It wasn't until Sherlock looked at him pointedly when the men lumbered into sight that John realized what he was supposed to do. He grabbed the gun and shot two of them in the space of a second, not dead, a bloke can only wash so much blood off his hands, even if it's justified, but he did enough damage to at least temporarily incapacitate them. He wished Sherlock had let him take care of the third guard instead of trying to tackle the big brute himself. Instead he was forced to watch them roll around on the floor, unable to help because his legs were still tied to the chair. Finally, Sherlock knocked the man out with a punch harder that John would have given him credit for. Apparently he hadn't been lying when he said he'd 'dabbled' in boxing. He got up and did his best to smooth out the wrinkles in his suit as he walked over to John. He kept a hand on John's knee to hold his legs still as he cut them free. Not bothering to look up from his work, he spoke into the space between John's calves.

'It's good to see you're not-' he paused, but John could tell what was coming next.

'A complete idiot?' he said in exasperation. 'Because I finally figured out your oh-so-brilliant plan, and you weren't quite sure if I could wrap my tiny mind around it?' He ran a hand over his eyes. 'Please, Sherlock, I've already had enough of that for one evening.'

Sherlock looked up at him with a frown. 'No-oh. I was going to say it's good to see you're not hurt.'

'Oh.' John looked away, feeling foolish, as Sherlock threw off the last of the ropes and pulled him out of the chair.

'We don't have time for this,' he said, grabbing his gun and then dragging John to the door. 'You can whine about being kidnapped when we get home.'

The hallway was dark, and they moved throw it in silence, except for the occasional creak of a floorboard. Sherlocks was still pulling John along behind him, his fingers clamped around his arm, refusing to loosen even when John tried to tug away. John was getting very annoyed, especially since it was his gun arm that was being incapacitated.

'Sherlock!' he hissed. No response. He grabbed the man and turned him around.

'What?' Sherlock was the picture of exasperation.

'I can walk by myself,' John said, gesturing towards where Sherlock's fingers were still attached to his upper arm. Sherlock let go, looking genuinely surprised, as if he hadn't known his hand had been there in the first place. Then his exasperation returned.

'You decided to blow our cover over _that_? Now we might as well have a chat about the weather on our way out. Except I won't be joining in. I find the weather insufferably dull.' With that he stalked off down the corridor, leaving John to hurry after him as he attempted an impossible mixture of a sigh and a smile.

They met no resistance whatsoever as they moved through the silent house. Finally they stepped into the front room, only to find themselves face to face with Irene Adler herself. She sat in an armchair, slim legs crossed and a smile playing on her cherry-red lips as she toyed with the gun in her hands.

'Sherlock Holmes,' she said breathlessly, 'you don't know how long I've wanted to meet you.' She stood. 'Your rescue attempt tonight was particularly brilliant. I'm impressed.' She said _impressed_ the way other people say _infatuated. _'How silly of me to leave a fire going! All you had to do was close off the chimney, and I would be forced to reveal the location of my most prized possession._' _At this last bit she turned to smirk at John.

Sherlock's eyes widened. 'You did it on purpose.'

'You couldn't tell?' Irene was blushing now. 'I just wanted to see your mind at work, without having to call in the police. So I made things just a tad bit easier. And of course that meant I got to watch you climb onto the roof.' She winked.

Sherlock took a cautious step towards her. 'You didn't have to bother with all this' he said. "You could have just invited me over."

'I doubt you would've come,' she said, smiling sadly. 'I don't think you'd like my friends very much.' Sherlock was silent, so she continued. 'I've been watching you for quite some time, almost as long as our mutual friend." Sherlock stiffened.

'It was you who addressed the envelope from Moriarty.'

'Yes, and I did with such loving care, surely you noticed.' Sherlock nodded, taking another step forward.

'How have I never heard of you?' he wondered, eyes fixed on her face.

'But you have! You've _talked_ to me on your website.' Irene giggled at Sherlock's surprise. "I asked you out. Do you know how heartbroken I was when you didn't respond?" She stopped to sigh at Sherlock's puzzled expression. 'Even worse, I offered you a room in my flat, and you decided to move in with _that_'-she jerked her head towards John-'instead.' Sherlock's expression cleared.

'So you're "theimprobableone,"' he said. 'But what makes it so improbable that you should be what you are?' Irene suddenly grinned.

'Just ask your friend there,' she sniggered, 'his mouth was so wide I could have fit my fist in it.' Sherlock shot a glance back at John and rolled his eyes. He took a last step, bringing him almost even with her.

'Well, you have me here now,' he said softly, 'just what is it that you want?' Irene bit her lip and shifted her gun to take aim at John. Or at least she would have taken aim if Sherlock hadn't delivered a swift punch to her temple, knocking her unconscious immediately.

John watched Sherlock catch Irene on her way down and lay her gently on the floor, mouth open once again. It wasn't that the attack wasn't acceptable under the circumstances. It was just that John balked at the idea of hitting a woman. Sherlock looked up and saw his face.

'She was going to shoot you,' he said with a shrug, 'not to kill you but to maim you.'

'How could you possibly know that?'

Sherlock stood, brushing himself off as he rattled off his explanation with the usual rush of words.

'When she stood she planted her feet farther apart than normal, trying to take up a more masculine stance. That told me that she doesn't think people take her seriously because she's a woman. My theory was confirmed by her user name on my website; she thinks of herself as "improbable" for a criminal. She wanted to give herself the dominant position over me by threatening you with the gun, but she wasn't sure that I would take her seriously even then. But if she actually shot you, injuring you while still keeping the gun aimed, I would have to believe her. That plus the fact that she's obviously jealous and would have absolutely no qualms about hurting you was more than enough to make me seriously concerned for your well-being the moment she turned the gun towards you. Shall we go?'

The taxi ride home was quiet. At least until Sherlock turned to John and initiated the anticipated lecture on the drawbacks of initiating or receiving amorous advances.

'Really John," Sherlock was saying as they hung up their coats in the front hall, 'While your attempts to romance every remotely attractive woman you come across are endearing to say the least, they have lead you to behave very unwisely at critical moments.'

John considered himself a patient man. But if anyone could push him over the edge, it sure as hell was the man in front of him. Doing his best to keep his temper, he gave a nod too stiff to convey any sense of agreement and briskly climbed the stairs to their flat. Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't get the hint, and continued his thought as he followed John inside.

'I don't know why you bother in the first place. You've never been able to sustain an attachment for more than a few weeks, and you haven't had sexual intercourse for two months at least.' At that, John finally snapped.

'Do you know _why_, Sherlock? Because of you! Because every woman who wants to get at you tries to do it through me! Because every time I find a nice, normal girl you sabotage me!'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Really, John, _Sabotage_?'

John collapsed into his armchair and rubbed his face in his hands. 'I don't know, Sherlock. Look, I'm just trying to find someone I can be happy with, and that's not the kind of thing I'm going to give up easily on. I know you probably don't understand how that feels, but I just want some space on this issue.' He looked up. 'Can you do that for me?'

Sherlock nodded, though he looked very reluctant to do so. John couldn't help but smile. Of course Sherlock would hate having to keep his mouth shut about anything. He hauled himself back out of the chair. He needed bed. Arguing can take a lot out of a body. So can taking down men while tied to a chair.

He lay in bed remembering Irene Adler from the party transform into Irene Adler the criminal. It might be a while before he followed a woman back to her flat again. At last he drifted off, and Irene's face morphed into bloodied bodies sprawled over hard packed dirt. _Damn it,_ he thought as he slipped back into his old nightmares of Afghanistan.


End file.
